T31-Needler Rifle

It's long, it's purple, it's deadly accurate. 'nuff said.

Imma gonna take my long, purple thing, and put it to some really good use. Right. Fucking. Now.

And then, after that, Imma gonna kill me some covies, with my long, purple needler rifle.

Some of you will get that, eventually. DO NOT ask your parents if you don't. I don't need any more daughters locked away from my wily (and limber) (and vigorous) grasp, thank you.

Casual Friday

How to get me NOT to cum

Actually, I don't know how to answer that question.

So I'll answer a different question.

How to get me to cum.

Shortest blogpost evah!

The end.

Well, okay, here we go (and cum, and go, and ... *sigh*).

Okay, one way to get me to cum, is ... to tell me not to cum.

I'm dead serious.

I would call myself a slut, but that's totally inaccurate, because, I would imagine, a slut is a girl who constantly engages in sexual. erhm: activities, and after a while, the senses dull, and the experience becomes dull for her. Just like the job for most people: they do it from 9-to-5 because no other option ever enters their heads.

No, I'm the opposite of a slut: I'm wanton. I mean: just look at me, and I'm like: ready! and begging for it, and you can't get me undressed fast enough, or in fast enough, and when it's in, you can't pound into me hard enough.

And I can't come fast enough, or any faster than I'm cumming. Or hard enough, because I can't cum any harder than I'm cumming.

I have the same effect on my lovers. I mean, I've been with girls who have guaranteed me they will not cum. Gold-plated, and you can bet your farm on it, and there's no way, and no amount of time, nor anything I can do that will make them cum.

Guaranteed.

I really ought to open up a casino to start taking these sucker bets.

Because I always win.

Always.

Miss Frigid over there, who was willing for me to bet my farm or hers or both.

She just lost the farm when she lost her marbles when I blew her mind.

The Big-O, ladies (and any gentlemen who care to read) ... for women, that is?

It's a lot mental.

I mean, physically, it's rather monotonous: rub there.

That's it: rub there. Boring!

But the images to get from plain-old boring 'rub there' to 'omyfuckinggodimcuvuvuvuvuvmmmi1i1i1ngg!11!1!1!' ...

Well, that's auto-stimulation, but for her, in my arms, to cum?

It's trust.

We women? You know why we don't cum?

Yes, you do, if you think about it, and boy, do you think about a lot of things, don't you, and that blocks it all up, doesn't it?

No, actually, thinking about 'stuff' is not the real blocker.

The real blocker is trust.

Girls don't cum because girls don't trust.

And what's to trust? They've been let down in so many relationships, starting when they were four and their daddy scolded them for being a girl and not a boy, like he wanted, and continuing on to lovers who wam-bam-thank-you-ma'amed them, taking their pleasure from her and leaving her with the leavings and the emotional turmoil of, well, he stuck his dick in me, so that must means he loves me, but why is he now with his friends, pointing at me and laughing, and they're laughing, too, and all their girlfriends, my old, now ex-friends, calling me a slut?

And so she tries a lesbian relationship in college because she'd like to think she's bi-curious, and girls won't treat her like that, right?

But then the girl who fucked her Friday night when she was stoned out of her mind and so drunk? Why do I see her with that other girl today, and they are hanging on each other like they've just been each other's boy-shorts, or why are they holding hands and looking sweetly at each other, giving each other gag-gag eyes like they, no... it couldn't be they're in love, because she told me she'd ...

And you try not to cry, and you build those walls, so you won't get hurt again. Those walls of distrust, and you become desensitized ... 'frigid' to the guy who calls you the ice queen because you're not coming when he is as soon as he's done with foreplay taking off his pants and sticking his dick right in you after having grabbed your boobs.

And that's what I have to deal with: not you, but the walls of mistrust and distrust you put up, because I'm just like all those other people who hurt you before, during and after lovemaking, so you're so sure you're not going to cum in my arms, because you simply 'can't'.

And then, in my arms, after your mind's been blown, you pretend you have no idea what just happened and why.

Well, I'll tell you the secret that you know, but won't tell yourself:

I won't hurt you.

That's a pretty big one, but here's the corker.

I love you.

You see 'I love you' is said in so many ways for so many reasons, none of them being 'I love you,' that you hearing those words, are like, 'yeah, right whatever, lemme give you a blowjob so you can fall asleep and I can have some quiet time with my regrets.'

But when you're in my arms, I don't even say, 'I love you,' because then we have to deal with all that baggage, all that hurt those words cause.

No, I don't say 'I love you' ... well, I do, sometimes, ... I be 'I love you.'

When you are in my arms, and I am looking at you, you are the reason for my existence, right now.

When you see that, you get that, at a level deeper than what any shit has ever hit you before, and then the lights go out because all you see are stars and fireworks. You ever be with a person who truly looks at you, who hears what your soul says and doesn't let your shit slide, but who cuts right through it, rapier-sharp, and pierces your heart of hearts?

That's me, bitches. Watch the fuck out, because when you're in my arms, you lose your very self.

Because why? Because you do trust me to hold onto you and trust as in: I'm not going to hurt you.

Girls don't have that trust. Period. That's why I'm not a girl. Really. Seriously. Because I do have that trust. I have that trust with me, and I have that trust in you.

Yes, I've been hurt. A lot. GOD! A whole fucking lot.

And I still have that trust, that lets me hold you and lets me be held by you, and lets me give myself, completely to you, and you can hurt me, because I trust you, I've entrusted myself fully, and completely, to your care.

Please, please take care of me. Please, please don't hurt me when I give myself to you.

I beg that now, because I'm myself now, but when I give myself to you, I'm not me anymore, I am nothing to me and everything for you, and I give myself fully and completely, and I will fuck you so long, and so hard, and so sweetly and gently, that I will break through every wall of mistrust, distrust, and hurt, even the very last one, and you will cum sweetheart, you will cum so hard it will scare you how hard you're cumming and you'll be afraid you might actually lose yourself in it.

Not knowing, or knowing, actually, that you are lost in it, completely, in my arms.

I give myself to you completely. Even if 'you' is 'me.'

Today was 'Casual Friday,' so I got to wear jeans.

How to make me cum?

Tell me not to cum.

"`phfina, I want you to go to the bathroom and dip in and check if you're wet, but don't cum in there."

So, this morning, I went to the bathroom, not to cum, but to check.

I was in trouble.

Pulling down my (very practical) white cotton panties?

There were spots of ... dew, already. Just fucking going to the bathroom to check.

And, hm: I can neither confirm nor deny that I did this, but I have this ... 'friend' ... hypothetically speaking, who went into the bathroom at work today and took the handicap stall, because she may or may not have needed some ... room, you know to ... you know.

And, well, going to the bathroom after freshly squeezed orange juice and an oatmeal breakfast ... well, ... oatmeal keeps you 'regular.' ...

So I pooped.

I pooped, and I'll spare you the details, because you know what bran does to a girl, but so, I cleaned up and flushed, got dressed, exited the stall, washed up, took some lotion in my hands ...

... and went right back into that stall.

She did, that is, my 'friend.'

And trou came down, and but this time, kitty and I (or 'she') had some private time together, and I got friendly with her, patting her and rubbing her gently.

Do you know that causes mind-blowing orgasms?

It's not the physical contact. It can't be.

It's the anticipation.

I was ... 'she' was ... so sensitive there, puffy, and what really gets me going is the gentle, light exploration outside the lips.

Soft, light, gentle strokes with one V-ed hand while the other hand is very gently ... caressing kitty's ... 'head.'

Girls, about this time, I was losing my mind. In a very public restroom doing something very, very private.

And that's when I heard heels, and a door open, and then the stall, and two stalls down, somebody else went number two, for a short while, ...

And the whole time, I was ... stroking kitty, her 'belly' very gently, sweetly. Mentally cooing to her as she purred contentedly at the attention.

Sometime later I was alone again with kitty and sometime later somebody else came in and I heard the psssst of somebody peeing, again two stalls away, and soon enough again I was alone.

And then I kicked it into high gear. And I imaged me forcefully taking her, that girl, ... you, not strapping on, but scissoring our hips together so that my kitty was kissing and stroking and then mashed up against and thrusting against your pussy.

Hard.

And that brought me to a level.

But then, it changed, the fantasy, and suddenly you did something, from beneath me, that I don't allow, you sat up and twisted us around so that I was forced down onto the bed on my back, and you began to take me.

And I whined, and I strained, and I struggled for control, but you had me in your embrace, your hips locked to mine, your legs entangling me and holding me so firmly I had no way to twist nor turn, but only more into you and your firm, powerful, demanding thrusts.

Then you leaned into the fuck, the fuck of fucking me, and your long hair brushed against my titties as our thrusting swayed your body.

And the way you looked into my eyes with your smoldering passion, and the way your hair tickled and brushed into the pores of my breasts and nipples, and the way your cunt was slick and rough, pressing and sliding against my little slit...

I came. I came hard, and, being in a (very) public bathroom, that, thank God, was unoccupied, but at any second could have any of the three coworkers I passed on my way into this very place and point come in while I was cumming, I came silently. Not even a hitched breath, but, girls (and boyz), I came. I gave myself complete to this moment of you fucking me, taking me so forcefully in this sterile, industrial bathroom, that I came and came and came.

... Or ... my 'friend' did. But there's no proof of any of the above ever happening because there're no witnesses (except from the films recorded from the hidden cams installed by pervy architects) and no evidence because she made sure to flush it all down and check the water afterward, and wash her hands and the sink so that they were squeaky clean.

And then, she didn't wobble back to her desk, even though she couldn't feel her arms and her legs were two well-cooked spaghetti noodles (well lotioned inner thighs: the canvas from blue jeans can be rather ... chafing), and she didn't put her head down on her desk right next to her computer and start snoring, because, well, she had to pass by coworkers and had to get in payroll reports by noon, see?

How not to make me cum?

That, right there, is a very tough question.

You see, I'm weird: I'm a trusting soul. A child, just innocence. You can hurt me and I still walk around with big trusting eyes, filled with wonder at, oh, is that a flower blossoming on that tree, right there?

You know what those kinds of people are? I'll be so blinded by the beauty, when I walk into the lion's den, I won't even know I'm being mauled and eaten, because those golden eyes and that soft, thick fur?


Lions are so beautiful, aren't they?

---

So, why is a slut a slut? I mean, I'm hard on sluts this post, but I've already answered that question in another post. So if you don't remember, you can read it. Capsule summary: a slut is a slut because she wants love any way she can get it.

We all, — we all — need love any way we can get it, and this world is so hard, and so cruel, and businesslike, and sterile, and cold, that it sucks the life, sucks the love out of ... well, sadly, everybody, and so we, some of us, are turned into sluts, because that's the only way, we think, that we can get him, or her, to wrap their arms around us, so we won't fall asleep alone, again, crying into the pillow after tasting the bitterness of our post-coital regrets, not bliss, of our lonely masturbation.

We all so need love, and the world (the 'world' meaning 'we all') is so cold and cruel.

Homework: see somebody, today, suffering (meaning: anybody), and love them. Love them so totally, so completely, so sweetly, that they have this one moment in time, with you, and know that the weren't alone. Love them so that to their dying day, they remember that moment in time, and treasure it, and that moment carries them through this rough patch, and even gives them reason, no, not reason: hope to live.

You. You are the only hope in the world, today, to a person who is despairing. And you can look down your nose at her, calling her a slut, or turn your back on her, and tell yourself, 'well, it's not my problem she spilled her tea on her blouse, she should grow up, the cry-baby,' or you can listen to her inane bullshit (trans: cry from a well of loneliness for help) with your 'I'm not here' bored eyes that glance, every three seconds, at your watch or the wall clock.

Or, you can reach out, from the well of yourself, to the well that is her, or, hey, him, and pull her up out of it, and save her.

You might just save yourself, too, but don't worry about that, because that's something you worry about much too much. Save her. She may or may not save you. You may or may not save you. But save her.

You save one soul, even if it isn't yours, ... and you do an absolute good.

Diamonds, rubies, gold, frankincense, myrrh. None of these will you remember 10 years later.

That one person, those several people ... maybe, you're Gandhi or Mother Teresa, idk ... and you save that nation of people.

That's what you'll remember. That's what that person will remember you for.

Forever.

On Beauty: Sita Sings the Blues

What is beauty.

That's not a question. That's a statement.

Because, okay, check this:



Isn't she alluring? Don't you, like me, just want to savage her, because you can't control the lust that she calls forth from you? From what? Her 'allure' to be sure, but that's because she's beautiful, isn't she?

I mean, anyone would be a fool to turn down such offered promises of bliss, right? Who could resist that? Only an idiot or a cad, right?

Obviously.



Like I said: obviously.

But, okay, the guy was ... hm, how do I say this politely, without appearing chauvinistic?

Hm, words fail me.

So, okay, the guy was being a guy. But what did the girl, she of the alluring black lace thong take away from this?



What is she saying to herself right now?

What do you say to yourself right now?

What do I say to myself right now?

'God, I'm so ugly/fat/stupid/dumb/useless ...' ... and on, and on, and on.

And why? Why do we say this to ourselves? Because some guy or girl in class gave us a condescending look?

No.

No. That's not it. That's not it at all.

Look at the first picture again. Isn't she the most beautiful thing in the world? Bar nothing? Doesn't she maybe even know it? Damn, she is hot! And she might be saying that to herself at that moment, too. She is fine! and sexy and sweet and smart and beautiful and with it and together and ...

... and everything.

But that's a very, very fragile layer.

We. Us. Me. We are very, very fragile creatures, because underlying that moment of exultation is this.

The voice. That little voice, that is telling us, all the time: you're trash. You're a faker, and you know it. You're nothing. You're shit. You're ugly. You're — oh, God — a disappointment to your parents. They don't love you. You don't deserve love.

It's not other people telling us this: is us. It's me, doing it to myself.

And all I need is this. I just, in my crowing and preening, one person with one glance to confirm what I'm telling myself as I try to use my bravado to bluster my way through this report, or presentation, or triste, or introduction.

I just need that one thing to make my foot moving forward to miss its step for me to fall onto my face. And then I'm that girl who fell down some steps or who flubbed her presentation or who turned in a shit paper or who farted when he was hooking his fingers into my panties or who threw up in the back of your car or tried to look sexy and oh, so failed.

It wasn't you telling me this.

It was me telling me this, and I just happened to use you to prove to me what I know that I actually am.

But, wait a sec. Really.

Look at the girl in the third picture, and look at the girl in the first picture. What is the difference in the two pictures?

No, duh, `phfina, like, huge!

Yes, like: huge!

But is she in the same body? The same skin? The same black lace thong?

Yes. Yes. and Yes. (as I scream out during certain occasions).

So what is the difference?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Except.

Except what she tells herself. She's the exact same beautiful woman, alluring, sweet, smart, sexy, all of that, except for the one crucial difference in what she tells herself she is.

You see where I'm going with this, of course. It's obvious to us, the dispassionate observers.

That guy, that jerk, has nothing to say who she is, and she could just as easily gotten up from the bed, smiled and go out for a drive with the top down and take a dive into the ocean for a cleansing refreshing swim, and then come tell that John that he's taking up space and is no longer welcome.

She could so easily do that.

And it's so easy for us to tell her that: "You rock, gf! You don't need no man to tell you who you are!"

But, that's not the real test.

It's easy — too easy — to see the faults in others and help them with free advice. 'Free' as in it cost you nothing to give it because you have no buy in that other person's well being after you dispense your wisdom and stick your nose in other people's businesses, 'helping' them by pointing out all their failings to them.

No, the real test is where the rubber meets the road.

It's what you tell yourself when you flub that word or trip or puke or laugh at the wrong time (oh, God, the worst! and everybody's looking at you like you know the idiot you are).

That's the hardest.

And the other hardest is this.

'Psst. Psst. Psst!'

Or: "Who does she think she is, wearing that dress like a slut?" "Did you see her make eyes at the VP? Is she going for a promotion ... on her back?"

Or, when somebody says: "I'm going to start my own business in cupcake making!" or: "I got called for a talent call, should I go?"

Do you say: "Oh, you know you're not suited for that Jane, you're just a secretary. Don't reach too high!" or: "Be careful, because my cousin lost his shirt in that" or any and every cautionary way to keep her down, to your level, because if she succeeds, what does that say about you, who are too scared to even think about trying?

Can you be strong enough to encourage somebody else to do something you won't even dare, even though it's risky?

And the other-other hardest is this:

"I'm scum. I'm ugly. I'm panicking. I can't do this!"

What do you do?

"Not my problem. L8R, bitch."

Or: "You're right, you can't, let me hold you and comfort you in the safety of my arms where nothing gets essayed or done."

Or ... what?

Or do you stay with them, all night long, suicide watch, even though you have to drag your sad, tired ass up to work tomorrow morning and explain to the boss why you didn't get that report handed in on time.

Really: on balance, what's more important? Somebody's life and self-worth, or your continued employment and comfort and safety at work?

Really. I'm serious. Which one?

For most of us, it's a sad statement that we'd trade a life for our jobs.

Starting with our own. We sacrifice everything so we can continue to live under the thumb, in fear of, what somebody might think at work when we come into work with circles under our eyes. So we say, "Mom, I'm sorry, I can't take this call now, I'm preparing for a meeting."

And how long to we have our moms? How long do we have another person? Once they're gone, they are gone. But your job? Didn't you get that last summer? Or ten years ago, or whatever? Can't you get a new one? Or, fuck it, jobs are a new thing, folks. People used to just make their way into the wilderness and carve out their existence. Did you ever read Little House on the Prairie? The built their house, they traded for food from wood they cut and furs they collected, they did everything from scratch, and didn't have the bossman fucking them up the ass and paying them a subsistence salary.

There is NO difference from what they did then and what you can do now, today, except you have a lot more going for you. You can bring a gas-operated saw and a water purification system, and you know a lot more about insulation than they did. And if you don't you have google and wikipedia.

The only reason why you are going to school or are going to a job is because, NOT everybody else is doing it and your parents are telling you to, no: it's because you're telling yourself that's what you have to do.

You're telling yourself, all the time, who and what you are.

Right now, you are telling yourself what you are.

And, generally, what you are telling yourself is too sad for me to write or to contemplate, because I'm right there with you.

Now, there are Angels. There are. Really. And they are fighting for you. And they tell you you are a child of God, and you are limitless, and beautiful and they love you.

You have, oh, maybe one or two Angels in your life, ... if you're lucky.

Don't bet on luck. The odds suck.

You have to become an Angel. Perfect yourself. How? By fucking being you.

I don't hate people because they are being themselves. I hate people when they are being less than who they are.

Yes, I hate everybody. With a passion.

I hate you. You talk yourself down, and into a corner, and trap yourself into being ... nothing. You listen to the other angels, the ones that ask you who do you think you are? And you have no answer for that because you listen to yourself all to well when you talk to yourself, when right there, right in front of you, all you have to do is step out, in faith, and there are hosts people, heavenly hosts, supporting you, and loving you, and encouraging you, and all you have to do is shut the fuck up and take that very first, small baby step...

... and the world opens up to you.

And you do try that baby step.

Well, guess what happens when a toddler takes her first step.

She falls, flat on her face. And then she cries.

But the difference between her and you? She gets up, and tries again, because mommy and daddy are right there, and are so excited that she's going to try her first step, again (some of you will get that, later), and when she does, and she wobbles, they are screaming with joy and on the phone and taking pictures and picking her up and twirling her around because she took one little step.

Sweetheart.

It's the same with you. You are a baby. A child of God. And you can either sit there and do nothing and God will love you, and what can God do with that?

EVERYTHING.

Example: Helen Keller.

But what do you do with that is the more pertinent question. Because you go right there and dig yourself deeper into your cesspool.

But when you take that first little step, and Jacob's ladder comes down and the Heavenly Hosts sing hosannas and you realize it's because of you, what can God do with that?

Everything, again.

But what do you do with that?

You take that next step, because that first one wasn't all that bad. And you take that next step, and, hey, I'm getting the hang of this.

And you take that next one.

It's all you, Sweetheart. That's the good news and the bad news. It's all you who determine who and what you are. The past is the past, and, yes, there were terrible things that happened in it for you ... and for others who picked themselves up.

You can pick yourself up. And dare to face the world.

And dare to face, face-to-face, vis-à-vis, to Love. Love is always coming your way. You can dare, now, to accept it, and look at yourself through Love's eyes, and see you as you are.

Beautiful.

I love you.

-----

The images are from the movie Sita Sings the Blues. the best movie of the year. Which year? Doesn't matter.

Or put another way. Twilight is this:



(thanks shiniez, and I may or may not have permission to post that, but I hope the number of hits to his site skyrocket (from the astronomical number of times I've view his site))

And Sita Sings the Blues is what Twilight could've been if it had the guts to dare to face the real world with a real relationship.

Oh, okay: `phfina's plot synopsis: Love, Loss, Redemption, Now, and Forever. Do yourself a favor: watch it.

Kutthee

Oh, I published a new one-shot call Kutthee. Just so you know. Do I need to mention it's `phfinaescque?

Oh, I do all my Shopping at Targét

It's all marketing, girls.

So, I went shopping today, because I had to get some more intimates, because I seem to be going through ... well: panties at a rather fair clip at work, and I have spares there, yes, but when you run out of spares for the day, what do you do? Well, you have several options, right girls, one of them, eventually is to go au naturelle ... but then, sitting down, you get this little wet mark on the bottom of your c.v.n.t.-high skirt and how do you explain that, you don't, right, because by then you're bent over the boss' desk and ...

... well, you know how the rest of that story goes.

But you can't say, around here, that you buy your panties from 'Target' ... 'tar-get' because that's way too plebeian ... you might as well admit to shopping at K-mart with Ray-man, Rain Man, and even he knows that K-Mart sucks. 'Tar-get' is just a step up from K-mart, and sounds too much like it, too. And when people say, 'well, Tysons I or Tysons II?' and of course you have to say 'Tysons Galleria' or else you might as go back to baristaing. (that's a word) (which you need a Ph.D. for, and I'm not joking)

So 'Tar-get' is out, but if you raise your nose, and say, 'Well, only the best, of course, Targé!' then people are all like, 'Ooh, the new French boutique? What did you get?'

And then you show them what you just bought over the weekend:



... There is a downside to all this.

(STOP SLOBBERING, you PERVS!)

And it's this. Bossman knocks his red pen off the side of the desk and tells you to pick it up, which you do, 'cause that's what we do, get the coffee, pick up red pens and ... well ...



(uh, huh: I went there)

But this time, bossman sees your black lace thong and he just loses his mind, and next thing you know, he's got his nose buried in your ass crack and he's sniffing away while pawing through your purse and he comes across monty in all his long purple glory (and no, no pics for you, as if I'm not banned already!).

So what does he do, but whine, clamber up on his desk and drop trou and beg dommy you to eff him up his big hairy ass with that big purple thing strapped on, so what are you stuck doing the rest of the day but going through your whole tube of lube with monty strapped on and your only view is this guys broad back and blue moon.

Turn off city, right, and what's worse is that he explodes like all-get-out over the payroll report you slaved over all day.

All because you bought something that you knew was going to get spoilt in the first 15 minutes of work, being so worked up by all the fantasies you have with you in that black lace thong, then you so not in that black lace thong, with your whole harem ... 'ministering' to your 'needs,' as it were. So you buy the 6-pack which you get you through the first hour of the Mondays, but here you are pumping away for so long now that your legs are cramping up and you're dry as the Sahara, but what can you do, 'Just Say No,' and find your ass out the door because Mr. Bossman finds his submissive streak and gets so turned on with you saying, 'My big purple cock is pumping your ass now, bitch! Who's your daddy?' And you find out you're his 'daddy' when he screams out your name, yet again, the third time this hour and doesn't this guy ever get tired out and how come he lasts only 30 seconds when he's doing you?

Wham, bam, thank you, ma'am, now I'm off to a power lunch with a client, why don't you shower, Vera and tidy up my office while I'm away? And all you are is left with his spunk from his junk in you and a very, very frustrated kitty, but when he wants it up the ass, you have to put out for a whole friggen hour, wearing your panties so he can sniff your ass afterwards as he paws at your titties, man-handling them as if they were steaks on the grill, and that's supposed to be 'sexy'?

And girls like guys for what reason again?

I don't get it.

So, wear these things to work? Like for 10 minutes and then have to change out of them and (eventually) go au naturelle and don't tell me nobody notices that particular scent ... and the puddle under your chair might be a clue, too. Or otherwise have Mr. Bossman with his big hairy butt whining away as you check your fingernails and the clock confirms what your poor tired legs are telling you that, yup, you've been at this for an hour and you still have work to do ... because your performance review doesn't have an oval for 'sexual prowess.'

Yeah. No. Not likely.

Now, one can wear them elsewhere, in more intimate settings, and for more private occasions...

Yes, ... one can do that ...

Hm-hm-hm. Excuse me. Gotta take care of ... 'something.'

Devil with the Red Dress

... I'm discovering my femmy-feminine side.

I mean, so, you know: what? So a girl gets complimented for wearing a green ensemble (the skirt is not 'knee-high', it's ... c.v.n.t.-high), and yes, so it goes straight to her head and so she buys a little red number, that she may or may not have in her budget, but hey, you only live once, right?

And getting a compliment?

It's like ... getting a good review of a chapter you just wrote, right, my fellow author(esse)s? You're like: nnn, well I won't tell you what you're like, because there's no describing it, you just have to experience by actually going out there, writing a chapter, and getting a good review (and then you're hooked, which is a very, very bad thing: 'reviews, my anti-drug, what's yours?')

So I won't tell you what that's like, but I will hint and say my washing machine has been receiving a lot of LUV!

(Is 'luv' an euphemism for 'soaked panties'? Just wonderin')

But I have ...

Okay, seriously now,

... I mean `phfina-seriously, of course.

But I have a question:



(quit staring at my butt, you pervs!)

Why do they put that notch back there?

'They' meaning the fashion designer.

Ever notice how fashion designers, that is, of girls' clothes, are all, predominantly ('pre' 'dominant') ... male?

Oh, you're pat answer: so a girl can walk, because she can't in a dress like that that is oh-so-tight in all the oh-so-right places.

Uh, huh, that's a pat answer.

Ready for the real answer?

I'll tell you why they put the notch, — or, dare I say: slit — back there.

Who designs these fashions, the oh-so-tight dresses with the 'supporting' corset to really make sure guys don't miss a thing?

Uh, huh: horny pervy guy architects ... I meant: fashion designers. Jeez! (but still horny and pervy).

And WHY do they design them with that slit back there?

It's not to help you so you can walk, sweetheart.

It's for the easy access.

I mean, seriously: Is this a house dress? NO! It's not a house dress. Is it a ballroom gown so a guy can press his you-know against you during the slow numbers ('numbers' meaning dance-sets, you pervs!). No. What is it?

It's a little Mad Men secretary pool dress for you to wear, so that Big Bad Mean Mr. Bossman can call you into his office as you deliver him his morning coffee, and oopsie, I just dropped my pen, Vera, would you pick that up for me?

Yessir, Mr. BigusDickus Bossman.

And then what happens?

You KNOW what happens next! But I'll spell it out for you anyway (and why I'm spelling it out I'll get to later in this post).

WHAMMO! he slams your head into his desk, and since that little slit, I mean notch, is there, all he has to do is unzip and bust through your nylons for is early morning quicky anal sex with his secretary fvckslvt because that's what you, that is: me, is for.

So you just go to work now not even wearing the nylons anymore (getting to be an expense to replace them twice a day) nor even panties.

Like I said: easy access.

Okay, so why does he bend you over the desk and anal smex you? (Warning: boring `phfina analysis ahead)

Firstly, with you bent over the desk, your fingers and toes, that is, your claws are unable to gouge out his eyes and rupture his little you-know. You're in the perfect submissive position, which only further enflames, and fans the flames, of his unleashed passions.

Slit in the back designed by guys, for guys.

Secondly, it's anal so he can avoid the paternity lawsuits or the responsibility (that is, the consequences) of having to divorce his wife and marry you and his new little jr he just put in your belly.

Child support, either way, see? Anal smex avoids all that mess. Facilitated by what?

The slit, in the back of your dress. Designed by men, for men.

Okay, so you and I (now) know the real reason that slit is back there.

So why does it stay there, then?

(And now it's 'later in the post' as I promised)

Because we want it there.

Yup. I went there.

If submissive little us, that is 'women in society' didn't accept our submissive little roles, and say, excusez-moi? when Big Bossman came at our derrières with his freed willy, but instead maced and then bobbited him (no, I'm not endorsing sexual violence nor assault from either party), then a whole lot more guys would be a whole lot more respectful of a whole lot more girls in the secretary pool.

But, the times being the times, and women being what we are told we are: that is, the fairer, weaker, submissive sex ...

We just take it.

... and look forward to it.

This was the part where I get tarred and feathered by a whole angry crowd of womyn from almost all sectors.

But yes, we tolerate in, and we even fantasize about a strong, dominate (in this male pre-dominated society) Bossman (or, whew, Bosswoman, yes, please) (I didn't just write that) (yes, I did), forcefully taking us and making us theirs.

Why?

Because when we are taken oh-so-forcefully, doesn't it mean we are desirable? Pretty?

And when we are made their bitch ... ('You're my bitch now!' he screams as willy rams and rams and rams and then releases into your anal cavity) ... doesn't being possessed like that, every day, mean we are loved?

So we buy that green number, and that demure (hot) little red number, because ... we want to be pretty, desired, and loved.

To be held by somebody else. In somebody else's arms, and have the weight of somebody else pressing down on us.

To be one, in union, with another, just for that instant, every day at work at the morning coffee and the just-before-lunch-to-work-up-the-appetite fvck.

... not that I'm talking from personal experience at all, mind you, it's just stuff I've heard, and things I've observed ...

REALLY! Honest! And I'm not protesting too much!

But to be one, so we aren't alone.

Just for that one second, not to be alone: to have somebody else fully being with you, the proof is that they are in you, and remain in you, even after they pull out, you still have the proof of that love in you, and you keep it in, clench it in your guts, so that you know you are alive, just for that one moment, and are loved, or, very sadly, were loved, for a moment in time.

That slit.

Yes, I like my new red dress very much, even though it makes me sad to think what it, that is 'me', is for.

Everything makes me sad, so that's okay.

HAPPY 'RISH DAY!

So, you like my brand new outfit? Do I look nice in green? :p

Check this:



Do you like my bowtie? It's green. Today is green day. You know: Potatoes and fried fish and chips and green beer (which is actually a Black and Tan)

(Like my bowtie ... isn't Black, and I'm very good at 'Tan'ning girls when they are so, so, very bad, bad, bad ... good!

Mmhm.

Wanna know a secret? C'mer. Closer. Lemme whisper it in your ear ...

I'm wearing the green bowtie, just for today, and ...

I ain't wearin' nuttin else.

WHEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!

I feel silly. I'm gearin' up for tonight, after Mass, see, because it'll be Sunday then, see? And ... my cheeks are already bright pink!

Oh, YEAH!

Hmmm. I'm feeling ... hihihihi

... um, HAPPY ST. PADDIES DAY!

I ... um ... excuse me, I have to take care of some ... 'thing's ... um ... WHAT'S BEHIND YOU!

;)

Alive Again

I went to breakfast yesterday with my extended family here, bb, his wife (Mrs. A), and my two nieces. There's always a genteel fight of 'sit next to me!' to be sorted out, so this time, this turn, I sat next to the little one. The older one was fine, I guess, being immediately buried in her book.

You have to navigate the mommy van in my family: there are boxes of books. And EM consumes, at least, one or two books every trip.

We went to a Swiss bakery for breakfast, so meusili, croissants, and Bavarian sausages. It was a little death for me to see all these Alpine reminders.

Why is it that everywhere I go, I'm reminded of Saga? It's like impregnated
into the very air I breath.

On the way to the bakery, Mrs. A played a CD of Matt Maher, a Catholic singer, she was sure to emphasize to me. And when the first song, rock ballad, actually, came on, a transformation occurred in the van.

EM kept reading, eyebrows creased intensely, as always.

But Li'l Iz ...

Her whole face shone, shone like the sun, with delight, and this little cubby cherub starting piping away in her sweet descant voice:

"I woke up in darkness,
Surrounded by silence
Oh, where?
Where have I gone?"

Then the chorus came, and Li'l Iz almost screamed the refrain:

"You called and you shouted.
Broke through my deafness
Now I'm breathing in
And breathing out:
I'm alive again!"

It was amazing. Compelling.

So the next chorus, I joined in:

"You shattered my darkness
Washed away my blindness
Now I'm breathing in
And breathing out:
I'm alive again!"

As I sang, I bobbed and weaved my head, 1-2 left, 1-2 right, and my hair, a black wave on the ocean, flying, windswept, careless as I sang and shouted the lyrics joyfully with my little niece a piercing voice from the heavens.

I'm asked: how can I be Christian, Catholic, even, being what I choose to be, and how can I, or how do I ... tolerate others, where I work, whom I talk to, who hold no such similar beliefs, because group? 'Polytheistic' is the closest approximation to what my workplace is like.

Well, I just do, but that's not the real answer. Not the examined one.

And examining it, I'm suddenly put into Saga's shoes, because she left me because of Christain scruples. Guilt, I'm sure, had a large part of it, but singing that song, being transformed by it, lifted up, lifted up to the Cross and the Glory, ...

Ladies and Gentlemen, everything was let go: my guilt, my fears, my pettiness, my hopes, my very self!

It all went away, and I was one in Christ.

Just for that moment, and then the next song came on, even better!

And the next, ...

And then we had breakfast, and I ...

Well, I settled back into myself, into being me, with my doubts, being in my skin again.

And the other side of that equation is this:

Evil, of course.

Because the other side is, I can look down my nose at everybody else, and say, well, at least I'm a Christian. I can stand before God and know I've got the whole package deal, the entirety of the Revealed Truth.

You see how dispicable I am? I'm shown the Glory of God in a very personal way in bits and pieces, and what do I do with it? I hoard it. Or run from it. Or write my confessions as an excuse to get attention and pity for what a fucked up little thing I am.

What did Saga do?

As always, she led. She said: this isn't right.

And she stopped walking down the road to destruction, and she started climbing uphill, toward her own Passion, her own cross, ...

her own glory.

And look at who's she affecting. Who, you ask. You. Because she's touching people, all the time, even people she doesn't know, not by drawing attention to herself, but she writes 1 review in Swedish, and she gets 5,000 hits on her profile page.

She's touching people she doesn't even know.

In alter Christus?

Saga is my little Christ, so I must be her prophet, a voice crying out in the desert, crying, 'Prepare ye the way of the LORD!'

I can't wait to meet King Herod, and be served for supper, my head on a platter.

But the question to me is how can I be a Christian, being what I am, and how can I be with people who aren't ... that is: aren't exemplar Christians or who aren't Christians, or even believers at all.

Well, the short answer is: easy! Very, very badly.

Because it comes down to this: sheep and goats.

In the end, God will ask me, what did you do?

And I will then have nowhere to run, nor nowhere to hide ... and nothing to show for the wretched life I lead.

But I will see God ask Saga the same question, and Saga, brave Saga, humble Saga, will say: 'Nothing, LORD, and that is the fate I deserve.'

And God will say, 'No, you are wrong. What you did was turn away from sin,'

And I'll watch God lift her up, because she did the hard thing, the impossible thing, the 'cruel' and unpopular thing.

Saga picked up her cross and followed Him, and she'll follow Him right into Heaven.

Me? I sang a song with my niece, wrote a blog entry, and sat in the squallor of my sins.

How do I feel about you not being a Christian?

Obviously, I don't feel enough. Because I have the gift: I've been given it more than once in my life, of the vision of seeing the Revealed Truth, and if I were anything other than one of the damned, I would've moved heaven and earth, mountain and stream, to get you baptized and walking in Grace.

Even the demons, on seeing the Christ Jesus, screamed 'You are the Son of God!' [Luke 4:41]

At the name of Jesus, every knee will bow. [Philippians 2:10]

But Jesus rebuked them, as He will rebuke me, and commanded, 'Be quiet!'

So that is how I feel about you not being a Christian and walking in the Light: it is just another nail in my coffin, another example God has of my iniquity, of a sin of omission: what I could have done, a soul I could have saved ... and I didn't.

What would Jesus do?

We have the whole New Testament what He did: always took the hard way, always went out of His way to save one more soul.

What did `phfina do?

Too much, and not enough.

Too much, and not enough.

Outlet

"Dear Microsoft,"

`phfina composes her email, pausing thoughtfully, and tries not to puke, she's so angry, she picks up her pen and continues,

"I understand that XBox Live is a tolerant place, allowing all kinds of players, some going in for fun, some rough and ready, going for the win, and some vicious or who just want to blow off steam from their frustrating day, another day of their meaningless lives.

I understand this, and I understand XBox Live allows this.

But, reading the terms of service, I see that some behaviors are not tolerated. And, I understand, too, you can't monitor every situation and take aggressive action against players who offend me, personally, because then XBox Live would be a rather quiet place filled with genteel people sipping their tea as they eat their biscuits.

That is, a very dull and boring place, indeed.

So, I understand, when a player teabags me, I'm probably going to see him online again. There's no option for reporting sexually offensive behavior like that. I understand. I also understand that when he belittles me, calling me a bitch, that I'm probably going to see him again, this time muted, because I've muted him.

But I'm probably going to see him online again.

But then, when I inform him that behavior is something I don't tolerate, and he's reported...

And he sends me a voice message saying he has an inheritor friend who he's sent my account name to, and my account will be hacked and I won't be able to play again ...

I believe that is using threatening language to intimidate.

So, I have a favor to ask, dear Microsoft, dear arbitors of XBox Live:

Can I never see the gamer tag ItzDaGhostKR3W again on XBox Live?

He sexually assaulted my avatar, he called me a bitch, and then he threatened me with hacking my account.

Please do this for me: please ban his account, as I do not believe your terms of service are well-represented by him.

Love,
`phfina."

Dear Reader,

I have a favor to ask of you.

And this is going to be a hard one, for all of you, because it's hard for me, too.

When somebody offends or intimidates you, don't do what you normally do or think what you have to do to get along.

Don't just take it, because you're a girl, or a subordinate, and that's what we have to do: just take it so we and everybody else can get through their day in peace and quiet.

The thing is, you aren't doing anybody a favor, not you, not him (usually him) not your coworkers nor classmates.

Your coworkers and classmates have been intimidated by him, too, and they're watching you, watching you taking it, and they say to themselves: 'see, she took it, that means I have to, as well: I don't want to make waves and be labeled a whistleblower.'

By you taking it, you've not only enabled him, you've embolded him, and the next time, it's going to be rape, and maybe not you, but your best friend who watched you take it, and now she's damaged for life, because you took it, like the good little mouse you are.

No, report him, yes, but so: he has no feedback, and so your silence to him means it's okay what he's doing.

Report him, and tell him. To his face.

A bully can only bully if the bullied lie down on the dirt and wet themselves.

A bully punches you? Punch him in the face. Hard.

Or 'punch him in the face' by taking appropriate administrative or legal action.

You know what's going to happen. He's going to punch you back, and call you all kinds of things, and tell all his (at max) two friends.

And then he's going to leave you alone. Because you're too hard, you're too painful for him when he wants to play his power games. So now he'll go pick on somebody wimpier.

But then, if that somebody wimpier is your friend, and, by definition, as of right this instant, he or she now is your best friend in the world! then you are going to go in there with your mag light and your sleeves rolled up and pound the stuffing out of Mr. Bully and his friends.

Or, your wimpy and now new best friend? He or she saw what you did, and saw Mr. ... or hell: Ms. Bully back off, so now your wimpy friends pulls out a left hook that leaves Mr. or Ms. Bully's jaw remembering that for a week.

Evil cannot be evil. And the only way it can be is if the good stands by and does nothing.

Somebody picks on you, intimidates you, you have two options. You can take it, and it will get worse, or you can fight back, and ... you know this: it will get worse. There will be repercussions.

But now you have that bully's (grudging) respect, but more importantly: you have your own respect back.

Your choice. You can choose to piss yourself and to survive hiding meekly under the thumb, or you can choose to buck up, pull back, punch, punch hard and live.

ItzDaGhostKR3W isn't anything. He's nothing. All he has is permission from everybody he's belittled to continue that behavior.

`phfina isn't anything. She's nothing.

Until she makes the choice: buck up, or lie down and piss herself.

I chose.

Now it's your turn. Every day, in every situation where you're being bullied, intimidated or coerced. (Like I said: every day).

Choose.

Oh, and if you are the bully ... I can't wait to meet you.

... and on that note ...

Okay, is this wrong?

trailers-dot-apple-dot-com-slash-trailers-slash-independent-slash-goodfornothing

Okay, strike that. I don't need to ask. It's wrong. It's so wrong.

I mean, like: the premise?

Cowboy kidnaps girl, calls her a whore (but an English whore, so that's ... okay, somehow?), and attempts to rape her but can't get his 4-inch weenie up, so he takes her cross country from doctor to doctor to cure his ... issue ... so, get this: he can rape her good and proper?

And because of his dedication, okay, get this: she falls for him?!?!?!

And when I say 'cowboy' I should be really saying 'anarchic psychotic sociopathic mass murder serial rapist,' right?

Or just 'boy' 'Cow'boy or otherwise.

(Boyz, I'm sorry, I have boy-issues).

Okay, that's so wrong!

But how come, watching it, it makes me feel so right?

It's the Stockholm-syndrome, girls-who-fall-for-mass-murderers-on-death-row sickness, I know. You know: the William Munny problem. A murderer of men, yes, but women and children, too, a drunkard, a callous bastard, riding into town, killing every swinging dick, riding out, having all the poor waifs waving their hankies as he rides off into the sunset (or actually under the torrential rain) and having to do an extra load of laundry with, get this: CALGON! because of the now-unwearable condition their panties are in.

Now, some of you girls might now be very green with jealousy, muttering, 'What's he got that I can't give you!'

*snicker* Well, that's your problem, not mine.

And then you're all like, incensed!, and scream, now, in my face, 'What!'

And, but, I'm cool as a cucumber (hmmm, cool cucumbers! ... ooh!)

Listen sister, put on your cowboy, well, cowgirl hat, strap on with monty, then mount this wild mare, and ride me until the cows come home. That'll solve the problem good, long, and hard ... and often.

And if that's not enough, get the 27-inch bigus dickus model, shove that thing so hard into kitty that the cock-head pops out my mouth, grab hold of that and bow-saw fuck me to death.

*Ahem!* *Whew!* Um, where was I?

Oh, yeah, the old West and getting fucked by a psychopath like nobody's business.

Okay, you want to know what's so, so wrong about this movie, that little `phfina, private investigator, found out on her lonesome, that nobody else told me but I found out anyway, 'cause I'm sweet, smexy, and so-damn-smart, and that's how I roll, huh?

Look at the movie producers.

Uh, huh. Guess which ... um: 'star' is one of the film producers?

Damn, this is going to be a good popcorn flick to watch, with my hand between my gf's legs, and her hands very safely strapped down so she needs to depend entirely on my light, fluttering, teasing fingers to please her as she watches the embarrassing, steamy or sweet scenes on the screen.

'Cause for me? My bosom is heaving under my corset, and my knickers are stained, again, under my petticoats.

Uh, huh: I found my movin' bodice.

Wrong? Yes! Hell, yes!

... but so, so, mmhm, so right.

Excuse me a mo' ... I have to ... 'excuse' myself.

Surgeon General's note: the use of 27-inch strap-ons have been deemed to be detrimental to women's health and has been observed to cause cancer in, well, mostly sheep.

Disclaimer: all actresses strapping-on and being ridden are professionals. Do not attempt any acts described herein in the safety and comfort of your own homes

... and if you do, pm me first.

To all the girls I've loved before ...

"... It is women's day today...

Just know that you are celebrated and cherished."

This doesn't apply to all the girls I've loved before only. It applies to them, to all of them, to each and every one of them.

And if I haven't loved you yet, my dear sweet girl, reading this post, wondering if she's lovable, wondering if she's loved...

Wonder no more.

I love you.

Oh, and my confession: I had to be told it's women's day today, just as when I worked at sbux and wondered why everybody was wearing green on that bitterly cold day in March last year, and, no duh, it was St. Patrick's day...

Yeah, I'm Irish, like I know when St. Patrick's day. I wore green that day, even, because I wore the green apron, just as I wore it every day of the week back then.

Yeah, I'm a woman, and I have to be told today is women's day.

You know what?

Every day is women's day. If you're a girl, or a woman, you should be proud to be you, and know that the world just. won't. work. without you in it. Every day is Irish day, because every day 'Kiss me, I'm Irish,' applies, and it doesn't matter if your Irish or Israeli or Iswedish, you deserve to know that you can love and that you are loved.

And today is women's Irish's day, so I deserved to be loved.

... and get smooches, too, but I don't want to give a little freckled red-haired cutie with sea-green eyes my sniffles.

Cuddles. Cuddles work just fine and dandy for me today, or any day of the week. They go well with scintillating intellectual conversations about epistemology.

Or the blessed, blessed silence of post-coital bliss.

.. um ... WHAT'S BEHIND YOU!

(`phfina scampers off)

"Turn Me On, Dammit!"

They made a movie about me:

trailers-dot-apple-dot-com-slash-trailers-slash-independent-slash-turnmeondammit

That's all that post was going to be, but, well, it's a lovely day, so why not ruin it more? That's all I'm good at, so here goes.

OF COURSE they would come out with an indie move about angst from Angst-central that is the Great Northern Old World, and, please, look at the girl, isn't she perfect. She is just so oh-my-god so fuckingly (and fuckingably) (or is it 'fuckabling'?) beautiful, especially when she puts that flower in her hair, and goes on the prowl, that half the girls in the world would give their right arm to be her and the other half (actually 5%) would want to do her.

Do her good, long and hard.

Like I said, a movie about me.

But then, how does she see herself? Look at her when she looks at herself. Do you see how her face becomes sallow and haggard?

She thinks she's ugly.

No, worse: she thinks she's undesirable.

No, worst: she thinks she's unlovable.

(Doesn't fucking help that every single person in that export from Norway is Nordic, and yes, Saga isn't Norwegian, and she isn't even Swedish, except by relocation, or maybe she's is properly half Swedish, but I don't remember any more, and I can't ask her, ... actually I can, and expect the same donut-hole responses I've been getting)

(But no response from Saga is better to me, a bittersweet drink, than anything I have before me in my empty and meaningless life, so I hold onto her silence as if it were the only lifeline I have ... had ... have, because at least I have her silence).

Like I said. Angst.

They did get one thing wrong: phone smex. And the bills for it. As if I could afford that.

Besides, why buy the cow, when the lactatio-... I meant: 'milk' *blush* is free? There's the internet for that. All day, every day.

Except at work. Can't get fired.

Besides (part deux) phone smex is so personal ... intimate, even! ... okay, here's how phone smex for `phfina would go down.

Ring-ring: please enter your account number or press star to enter your credit card information for a new account

(`phfina enters her account information, for the 500th time this week)

'Hello,' says a sweet, friendly voice, 'my name is Kristile, what's yours?'

(`phfina shrieks and hangs up, blushing hard, just like the past 500 times, and runs from her flat to the nearest pub, I mean: 'hide-y hole')

At the end of the month, they find a what they identify as a preteen girl in an apartment she was squatting, dead, with a credit card bill for $3,000 clutched in her left, that is, her non-knife hand.

I think I'm going to love that movie, when it finally comes out on youtube in "Part 1 of 10" segments, because, really, who wants to see a movie about a sad girl with no happy ending when there's the multibillion dollar happily-ever-after franchises, like Twilight ... THAT'S reality: self-conscious girl, awkward, lands ultra-rich-cute-powerful boy and gets deus ex machina powers AND, for fuck's sake, a perfect in every way daughter who hits preteens right away and is just so adoring and adorable there's nothing at all to hate or be frustrated about with her.

THAT'S reality, so why watch a teenage angst movie, and told from a girl's perspective at that?

She probably commits suicide at the end. Because: labeled a slut? ostracized so much that her best friend leaves her to hang out with a nice guy?

Where have a lived, I meant: 'heard', that before? Hm.

Now, I'm terrified to write they made another movie about me:

trailers-dot-apple-dot-com-slash-trailers-slash-independent-slash-godblessamerica

Because it's been like, what, at least three times that people PM me and are like, 'Are you like a 40-year-old pervy guy'?

And I'm like, what?

I mean, seriously! Do they see me as this guy?

trailers-dot-apple-dot-com-slash-trailers-slash-independent-slash-badass

Last I checked, Machete slashed a lot, but he didn't have that little tiny slash that I have down there when I check my birthday suit in the mirror.

Mirror time. Fun-fun.

Seriously, three times a girl comes to me, opens up, and then says am I a stalker perv?

Did you get the part where they came to me, I didn't go to them and say, 'diddle yourself while you tell me your fantasies of me fucking you'? No, they came to me, and opened up, and I tried, God, I tried to tell them they are lovable, and give them some self-meaning, and -worth, and -confidence, but somehow I'm the stalker because they're a fucked-up psycho bitch?

Fucking psycho bitches.

Please, do me a favor, and fuck off, fucked up psycho bitches.

You can get hurt on-line. I have, but not for being called something I'm not.

I got hurt, badly, for being called something I am.

It was, somebody ... who saw this shy, scared girl, and made a tiger trap for me, and baited it well, and when I fell into that trap, and had nowhere to turn and nowhere to run to hide, she said: "I know who you are."

And she told me.

Another time I almost committed suicide.

Why do people JUST. HAVE. TO. KNOW?

"Are you an alcoholic?"

"Do you have a mental disorder?"

And then the killing me softly with kindness, telling me what and who I am, putting me in my place, under her domination and control, so she would be safe, because there's somebody (much, much) weaker, more vulnerable than her, and she's seen these weaknesses before, and knew exactly how to exploit them.

No, I'm afraid of mentioning 'God bless America,' not because I'm a rampaging murderous fourty year old pervy man (please!). No, it's because I am that teen girl, outcast, with that really, really weird twisted outlook on life, who is this close to pulling a gun on the guy who double-parked, but did she, no.

What she did was smile, evilly, and pat our anti-hero on the arm, affectionately, encouraging the behavior on him which that sweet little innocent her would never dream of acting out on.

That's why I'm afraid of mentioning that movie, because you see me as brave, and strong, trying to work through my shit, when, actually, I'm not working through the shit, I'm not in the shit.

I am the shit.

I'm a little vicious, conniving, nihilistic, evil shit.

Special place in hell, reserved just for me, the anti-elect.

Those two movies got one thing wrong ... about me, and so right about girls these days.

No matter how low these girls, these anti-heroines have sunk, they ...

They still have self-worth, pride, and bravery or courage. They can flip off their town, because they know they hate it.

Me? My life? I grew up in Middletown, CT, 'Little Italy', an outsider, by definition, but I didn't know I hated that little town where there was no way I could fit in. I didn't know anything. That's just the way things were, and that's just the way my life is.

These girls? They have the guts to subscribe to a phone-smex line to help take care of bizness, they have the guts to go up to a 40-year-old perv watching school girls through binocs to say, 'Isn't that a little lame to get your rocks off, you perv?' and then when he offs the class princess-bitch-cvnt, she has the guts not wet herself and fall into a quivering teary pile, lying the whole time saying, 'That's not right,' and 'you're so mean, how could you do that!' when deep in her heart she felt her panties get wet watching him off that vicious bitch who picked on and belittled her her whole school life.

No, she has the guts to smile, and say, 'That is the coolest thing I have ever seen. Can I come with you?'

And get in his car and throw her useless, pointless, predetermined life away and walk into an unknown, carefree, exciting future and actually live.

Do you see why I'm terrified?

Nah, you don't. You just feel sorry for fucked up little me, that I can live my fucked up little life that everybody else is just fine living ('quiet lives of desperation'), and I can't ...

I can't go on.

Yes, I can.

How do people do it? How do people just keep going on, and are actually happy and content with what they have? It's like a gift, isn't it? Did everybody else get the manual, and they forgot to give it to me, because I missed out on 'How to have vaginal and anal intercourse with a male and enjoy it, even though he cums in like, 30 seconds, and you never will' manual on how to live your life happily and contented even though there's better and you had it for a while and then it's all gone, twice.

TWICE. Twice I've lost the best friend and lover in the world that I knew I would never have on my own merit, and now I have to settle for ...

So now I have this Big Scarlet letter, ... not 'A', for 'Adulteress' (been there, done that), but 'S' for 'Settle for', so now every person who comes to me sees that 'S' and knows what she is, 'Oh, I'm just what `phfina's settling for'

And what does that say to her about her? And what does that say about me, that I'm living my life in the past with my regrets, knowing I don't deserve what I had had, so judging everything, even better things, as not measuring up, and measuring up to what? What I had when I can't see beauty, and kindness, and sweetness and love right in front of me, because all I have in my guts (which we have establish that I don't have guts) is anger and the only taste left in my mouth is bitterness?

----

I've been looking for the king of diamonds
But I guess the queen will do
I've been looking for the king of diamonds
Till the dealer gave me you

You've got everything together
You've got everything I want
You've got sharp & sparkling pleasure
Even from the middle of your card

"King of Diamonds," sung by Motopony

... but what does that make me? That's easy:

You are just a stranger,
With your vodka soda.
Under the street light.
You were a silhouette.
Cigarette.

You look, You look like trouble.
You look like beautiful trash.
You look, look so holy through the smoke
And the ash of beautiful trash.

"Beautiful Trash," performed by Lanu

That's what it makes me, a pretty little girl with nothing to recommend her than her beautiful girlish looks, her beautiful insights, and that she tries, oh, she tries so hard!

Yeah, I'm a try-hard.

Hm, I wonder if cigarette smoke clears the nose, throat, and lungs of all the snot I'm carrying in me.

You know, clear my head. Just like my Pepe did, when I was a little baby, one, two years old.

He went to his garage shed one pre-dawn morning, took a gun, and cleared his head, with a smok(ing bullet).

Nana found him. Something felt wrong. So she ran to the garage, and found him there. Cold, pale. Dead.

Just like me.

Architects are pervs

There's no two ways to look at it: architects are pervs.

But, you say, 'No way! My friend is an architect and he's a total square. The definition 'geek' has his picture by it in the dictionary!'

Okay, you want proof. I'll give you proof.

So, in my safe little efficiency block building, two story, it is one of many buildings that form a quadrangle, okay, still with me? My flat faces in. Okay, fine, so my 'deck' overlooks a big rectangle of brown permagrass ... and all the other buildings with all the other apartments facing in.

Question. Where is my bathroom?

Another question: where is the window ... no: WHY is the window of my bathroom right next to, no, damn near IN the shower?

Okay, so, last night a three am ...

Okay, so I'm sick, okay? My head is the size of Kansas, which is impossible, because my cute little button nose feels like it's the size of Texas!

So I wake up, because I can't breathe, except through three tons of snot, and take a nice hot shower, I look out the window, ...

and there are other lights on. Other people watching I-don't-know-what on the tube at three am.

Can they see me, all lathered up, rubbing the washcloth over my sweet, smexy, (*sigh*: preteen) bod?

WHO DESIGNED THESE BUILDINGS WITH WINDOWS IN THE SHOWERS?

Pervy architects, that's who!

That was proof number one.

Proof two: office buildings. Where do they put the mens? RIGHT NEXT to the womens, that's where.

So some guy just whislin' Dixie just waltzes right in there. LIKE IT HAPPENED, LAST WEEK!

What's he get an eyeful of?

Well, what everybody knows what happens when girls go to the powder room, because they go in as a group, and come out all bubbly.

WILD LESBIAN SEX ORGIES, THAT's what that pervy guy gets an eyeful of!

And who designed that that way, KNOWING some schmuck would just waltz right in there during our wild lesbiotic orgies?

PERVY ARCHITECTS, THAT'S WHO!

That's proof 2a, proof 2b is this.

Those pervy architects KNOW what women do when the fly solo in those commodious stalls. THEY KNOW. They read my post so they know girls are stripping down to their all-together and touching their tiny (and super sensitive) titties and thinking naughty, smexy thoughts. THEY KNOW this. So they also know the girls in the adjacent ('commodious') stalls are getting all hot and bothered, just thinking about the preteen in the next stall getting all oiled up and nekkid so she's ready to take it long, hard, and often, and those pervy architects KNOW that these girls think about this and get oiled up with their 'natural' oils and ...

AND THEN! There's all those boyz and girls READing those blog posts about preteen girls getting all nekkid in office building and school bathrooms across the nation, and who does this benefit?

CALGON! THE TRUE CULPRIT!

("Take me away" is their motto. 'Take me away,' indeed! 5, 6, 7, 15 times a day!)

They KNOW panties are getting moist, no, not 'moist' SOAKED, they are getting SOAKED, and do you know how many extra loads of laundry are being done EVERY DAY, ACROSS the nation? Because of PERVY ARCHITECTS in CAHOOTS! with CALGON put all these stalls RIGHT NEXT to each other so some poor, sweet (not-so-)innocent girl can't strip down to her sweet, smexy self and ... 'relieve' a little built-up stress (it's also called 'blowing off "steam"' or getting a full head of steam, OR EFFING CLIMAXING YOUR BRAINS OUT AS YOU CUM AND CUM AND CUM!)

*Whew* Where did that come from?

I'll tell you where that 'came' from! It came from PERVY ARCHITECTS designing schools and office buildings KNOWING that a poor, sweet girl like me CAN'T POSSIBLY last 8, 9, 10 hours in an office building PARTICULARLY during CERTAIN lunar cycles without needing to ... 'rebalance'? and of course, where does a girl go to do that, the bathroom stall, the fourth from the entrance, but OF COURSE every OTHER girl KNOWS that and as soon as sweet little me says, 'uh, I have to go to the bathroom, ...' there's this MAD rush to get to stalls three and five.

Just sayin'

Proofs 2a and 2b.

(And I'm so resisting writing 'or not 2b' as that kind of sad humor runs rampant in my family, who files their bills under 'S' ... for Shakespeare ... oh, God, spare me from groan-inducing humor!)

Proof 3: restaurants and sbux.

Where is the uni-bathroom, right? Secluded, out of the way, in back, unobtrusive, safe, secure from prying eyes...

OR SO YOU THINK!

Where's the kitchen? Or the office, huh? EVERY SINGLE time. EVERY time. In EVERY restaurant and sbux.

Right next to the bathroom.

You ever check the bathroom for holes before you lift up your skirt and pull down your panties? Huh? Do you? HUH?

Didn't think so.

EVERY time cute girls go to the bathroom, just watch, you see the wait staff book it to the office or the kitchen?

What's the big rush?

I'll TELL you what the rush is: they're going to the beaver flash. Uh, huh. I ain't lying.

AND WHY is the supply closet in the bathroom, and inaccessible to customers, and WHY does the supply closet have a back door that leads to where? Uh, huh. Notice how the supply closet backs RIGHT to the kitchen? Ever notice that?

AND WHY are there ventilation shafts connecting the kitchen or office to the customer bathroom? They're both internal rooms, so you need to circulate air ... INTERNALLY?

No, you don't.

Ventilation shafts have these big holes to let 'air' or ... prying, PERVY, eyes peek at the beaver shot, and then, you know, a girl doing her bizniss takes all of 10-20 seconds. Why is she in there for 5-10 minutes?

We know why, girls. And so do the wait staffs, and cooks, and managers, and matron-d's and ...

They're all voyeuristic bitches and bastards watching a poor, sweet innocent young girl trying to keep an even keel from getting out of the pervy clutches of Joe Neanderthal pawing at her the whole dinner date she only agreed to because 1) she's dirt poor, and 2) she somehow stupidly hopes that if she says yes this one time (TO THE DINNER, YOU PERVS!) he'll leave her alone after that but no, he has to be 'affectionate' and paw at her the whole meal, getting her all hot and bothered but not for Mr. Square-head No-neck with hair on his PALMS?!!??!?!

But curious, idle fingers do need something to diddle ... I MEANT 'WORK ON!' JEEZ and ...

and so all the wait staff just SO HAS to go back to the kitchen to get the dessert at the same time poor hot and bothered girl needs to adjust her dress.

And who designed all internal-bathrooms-right-effing-next-to-the-office-and-or-kitchens in restaurants and sbux?

PERVY ARCHITECTS!

Ok, so you checked for holes, so you think you're good?

THINK AGAIN, BIATCH!

You know, mini cams these days blend right into tile work.

Who knows this? Very well?

PERVY ARCHITECTS UNDER THE PAY of mean, domineering supervisors and managers who get off in looking between the toes of poor girls who kick off their heels and stockings to give their poor aching feet a rest so they can relax and take care of bizness, but no.

You're not safe from prying eyes .. FACILITATED BY PERVY ARCHITECTS ... at home, at work, nor at a swanky restaurant or sbux.

And in the bedroom?

PLEASE!

WHY do you think telescope companies are pulling down a mint of money, huh? Did you think Joe Square JUST SO wants to gaze at the Pleiades?

Oh, he's gazing at the Pleiades, all right ...

BETWEEN YOUR KNEES!

Halo: a `phfinaescque dissection

In which a girl gives some unsolicited gaming advice.

So, you want to play Halo[1] with me, `phfina[2], and you want to play with me, today.

What do you need to do?

Okay, so first of all, if your name is I Love Decline or x Seraphic x, or you're a girl like them, ignore this post, you're already doing just fine, better than me, in fact, so you don't need to take advice from me. No, I take advice from you, and watch how you play to improve my game.

But if you're just starting out ...

Well, what do I do, every day, every game?

Halo: general multiplayer tactics

I am arguably one of the best players of Halo in the world. And that's not bragging on myself, that is stating a fact, plain and simple. I am one of the highest ranked players, a Noble (the full moon symbol. Yes, I know: shut up), and about to be promoted this week to an Eclipse (the moon eclipsing the Sun. Yes, I know the symbolism here, too: shut up).

There are 8.4 million people who play Halo every day. I have a BPR [3] of 87%. Using Perato analysis [4] I am off the charts, or, anecdotally, when playing the best of the best, I can hold my own, sometimes doing well, sometimes even distinguishing myself as the MVP [5] of the game.

That's not me talking, that's the results from the game engine itself.

So, if you want to play with me, it's helpful if you play like me. Why? A team has different roles, to be sure, but a team whose members are of like-purpose is more unified. A more unified team succeeds more, wins more, and all the members benefit from the strength of the unified team.

So, how to play like me then?

Well, how do I play?

First of all, my playing skill I self-rate to be: meh. I don't have the skill to snipe a headshot across the map while evading return fire. I don't have the skill to get into close quarters combat, going toe-to-toe and blow-for-blow and come out the survivor of that fight.

I'm not a skillful player. So I have to be a smart one.

How to play smart?

Firstly, in team games, I rely, heavily, on the team. Because the other players on the other team? They are working together in twos or threes. I go into a fight against an enemy, there's no doubt I'm going to die, if not by his hand [6] then surely by his teammate who comes in to clean up the buzzard bait, that is: me.

So what I do is to be the buzzard.

Translation: if I'm not watching your ass as you lead the charge into the fray, it's because I'm leading the charge. Meaning: I'm dead meat.

So, in combat, I'm always looking for my teammate's asses. If I don't see them, I'm dead; plain, and simple.

So how do you play?

The same way. If you aren't married to the hip of me, if you can't see my ass on your screen, it means you are charging ahead, like a n00b, and, like a n00b, you are going to get murderlized by four players on the other team, because there's no way I'm following a suicide runner. I'll just watch you die and pick off any enemy you've weakened ... that is, if I can. A n00b charge is usually so ineffective that it's just a free point for the other team.

So, lock onto my ass and grab it and don't let it go, the whole game.

Except.

There are always exceptions to the rule.

Except for Invasion and Grifball.

In Invasion, the 'cannon fodder' has to press the goal, and press hard. Why? The skillful player has to stand off and pick off the enemy trying to attack goal or defend goal, if the cannon fodder are not pressing goal, no progress is made and the game defaults to a win for the enemy.

Of course there's no point in pressing solo, that's just another free kill for them and an extended delay in respawn for you. Wait until you have a skilled partner, then press. If somebody else is in goal, hang back! defend them as best you can, then press when they die.

Invasion is all about the overwhelming and coordinated strength of the push, if you, as the less skilled player is not pressing, then I have to, then I die, and you die right after and the goal is never captured. But if you press, you die, but in so doing, you shave time off goal, and I respawn you right by goal, and we win.

See the distinction?

Now for grifball, if you're drooling on my ass while I, the skilled player, carry ball, then there is no path that you've cleared to goal, and with four enemies with more effective swords and hammers than my wee little ball (THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID!) I'll be made quick work of, and they'll get the turnover.

No, stop drooling on my ass when I have ball. Instead: press, press hard and with the path you've cleared, I can score the goal and our team wins. Now, if you have ball, if you do not see a teammate in front of you, DO NOT PRESS! Game after game I watch idiot n00bs turn the ball over because there they are, all the way in the enemy field by themselves with three enemies guarding goal and one coming up right behind him with sword out at the ready.

Yup, I say to myself: another sliced-and-diced victim.

When you have ball, let, you hear that word? let your teammates press. Grifball is not basketball, and has no room for heroics nor for showboating.

"But, `phfina, there was that one time when I ..."

Yeah, yeah, because the other team were all idiots with their thumbs up their ... 'assets' doesn't mean your foolhardy moves wins game after game. Sure, at start when you have ball and the goal is clear, press, because everybody is respawn from the first exchange of blows, but that's different than what I see all the time: idiot charging solo with the ball into a thicket of enemies thinking because they've just hit puberty and they have double shields that they are invunerable (except for the achilles heel — their back — which they stupidly forget as they ignore everything else in their suicidal charge to goal ... 'to goal'? I meant: 'to turn the ball over to the other team.')

Goal-oriented games are all about the coordinated press, and we, the skilled players need you to press so as to create openings. Openings are opportunities for a quick win. But only press when there is a skilled player there to seize that advantage, otherwise you're just charging into your blaze of glory to die to no purpose and to no end other than helping somebody else's K-D [7], and that just sucks for you.

All the other game types in multiplayer are usually point based ('slayer') so in that case it is very important that you kill more and die less. n00bs concentrate on 'killing more' but then just charge ahead and don't kill at all, but they die and die and die. In slayer games, find a buddy and cover her ass, and she'll cover yours, ... drool- or other-wise.

Otherwise your ass ... is grass.

Just sayin'

Halo: the Game and the Meta-game

Halo is a game, as I'm told, but it also is several meta-games.

The most obvious three are the commendations, challenges, and achievements, because when you complete one of them, you are immediately rewarded with credits (cR) or gamerscore.

So, yeah, you get rewarded for close quarters combat.

And if that's your bag, go have a blast throwing yourself at a smarter enemy who shoots you first with the pistol, then the Assault Rifle, and if you make it through that hail of rounds running straight at them to deliver the melee, enjoy dying at their love tap to your face.

@_@

A not-so-obvious meta-game is the game of the interplay of those three meta-games, and, within these game, the interplay there, internally.

"What are you saying, `phfina?"

What I'm saying is this: yes, every day, I check what the daily challenges are, and I pursue them. So, today, the daily challenges are:

• "Fire when ready" Completion reward: 1,100cR
  
  Kill 30 enemies in multiplayer matchmaking
  


• "Up close and personal" Completion reward: 1,600cR
  
  Kill 8 enemies with close quarters combat in a multiplayer matchmaking game.
  


• "The little guys" Completion reward: 2,500cR
  
  Kill 200 grunts in campaign today on normal or harder.
  


• "Survivor" Completion reward: 2,000cR
  
  Earn 9 sprees in a firefight matchmaking game
  

And this week's challenge:

• "Legendary Friends" Completion reward: 10,000cR
  
  Complete any campaign mission on legendary in co-op mode.

What is obvious between one of today's daily challenge and the weekly challenge? Well, obviously, doing a campaign mission of legendary, you may encounter some cute little grunts (I just wanna hug them!), that you may just kill. So, doing the weekly challenge will score completion toward the daily "The little guys" challenge.

I play with so many people who go about this backwards. Like they load up rally point bravo in The Package on normal, or the hang down by wraith drop off on The Long Night of Solace, kill two hundred grunts, quit out of that game and then attempt the weekly.

Or, if the daily challenges are three multiplayer ones, and the fourth one is "kill 200 enemies in any game mode in Reach" then they load up firefight, kill two hundred enemies, then subsequently kill more than two hundred more enemies in multiplayer, with their firefight commendations already maxed out.

Talk about redundant effort!

And on that note ... (`phfina rolls up her sleeves and leans over her bully pulpit)

Okay, "The little guys" great, so hang out by wraith drop off point and kill two hundred grunts.

But have you completed the campaign? On X level of difficulty? Good, kill away, but no? you haven't?

Well, then, finish the damn fight! There may be two hundred grunts in the campaign, total, if there are, they you've killed two birds with one stone: the daily challenge and a set of achievements associated with completing each level and then the entire campaign. Bonus.

AND there are achievements for weapons use and weapons swap. Before every game, this is what I do: I check which achievements I have left open, I check which challenges I can address and I check which commendations I can work on.

Warning: a Firefight rant

It's like those guys in firefight who grab rockets and go to town committing suicide. I'm like, excuse me! isn't your heavy weapons commendation maxed out already? Oh, really? Have you ever heard of a killing spree, Mr. Jet-pack-rockets Suicide? No? I bet you've never heard of the perfection commendation either, and, oh, by the way, the commendation for precision weapons is higher than the one for heavy weaps. That goes double if you just so happen to get a headshot with your snipe or needle rifle (the best weapon in the game). Try getting a headshot with that rocket, Mr. HotRockets. Just try.

So what happens in firefight game after firefight game? Mr. Suicidal grabs a huge lead with his zillion multikills.

And then `phfina walks away from the game, slowly accumulating spree after spree. Results: 0 deaths, ... and the high score.

And then the credit rollout happens, and where rocketboy gets 2-3,000cR, `phfina gets 5-10,000+cR each and every firefight game.

Stupid fucking suicidal rocket n00bs.

And THEN they have to weather the `phfinaescque note afterwards: 'Nice death rampage, buddy. Next time try to get a longer spree than the number of your deaths, huh? And, have you ever heard of an invincible? Didn't think so.'

Bungie 2.0'd firefight, and not in the good way. Firefight was perfect in ODST [8]; they should have left well-enough alone, but, no: they had to slice open that golden goose. Now all we have left now is this grinding slog called Reach: Firefight, that encourages 'yaaaa! charge!' behavior from boys with rocket toys too big for them to handle, because all they have is the little weenie rockets in their pants, so they think they can hold onto that big gun on their shoulder, because they can't even free little willy. But that's okay. At least they have a big rocket ... on their shoulder.

So all firefight now is boys (way)(over-)compensating.

Firefight in ODST was challenging, frustrating, exhilarating, joyous, beautiful. Firefight in Reach is just plain boring, and I only play it to complete the daily or weekly challenges.

Firefight limited is mildly challenging, and I enjoy receiving all the 'hero'ine medals from it but ... but Bungie really flubbed on this one by dumbing it down with Arcade fight. After all, why play with any skill or intellect when you have unlimited lives with no consequence of dying except not getting the perfection commendation that has so little payout for such a stupifyingly long stretch of perfections that there's no feedback to the player whatsoever for playing smarter.

Thank God I can still play firefight in ODST. But every time I do, I shake my head and mourn the loss of what it could have been in Reach.

Okay, enough of that.

So playing the basic meta-games of commendations, challenges and achievements well means playing the meta-meta game well: 'How can I work on the most number of commendations, challenges, and achievement in this next game?'

Of course, you can't play the meta-games at all unless you are play the games, and my advice for that is that when you are playing the game, play the game! So many are in chat with their friends playing other games! or asking other player do they want to date them (my answer: 'Aw, how sweet! No, thanks. Now, cap the damn flag, please!') or are complaining about the vote or the map or the other players. Play the game! You don't get commendations for dying nor for bitching about how much your pussy hurts (and guys excel at this, for some strange reason). You get commendations for having the s.o.b. on the other team dying, whether by your hand or by your help.

Jeez.

Okay, so that's enough general guidance/soapbox bitching. Now let's get down to the hardened nipples ... I meant, 'brass tacks.'

*blush*

Today's Challenges

• One game of grifball will solve "Fire when ready" and "Up close and personal." Done. (The close quarters commendation should actually be an anti-commendation where you get penalized for a close-quarters combat kill. Just sayin')


• "The little guys". Completing the weekly gets you on the way, finish campaign levels in co-op for level completions/flawless cowboys, and, to get the hardest commendations for campaign, let the other players steal your kills for the second gunman/gunwoman, and thank them for doing it.
  

  
  Rant: "Aw, you stole my kill!" In a team game? It's our point, not yours, you fucking show-boater, and if you can't close the deal and I get a protector medal out of it, you should be thanking me, bitch, not bitching to me, Mr. Reload-No-Shot.
  

  
  "Aw, you stole my kill!" in a team game. Those guys should be allowed only to play rumble pit. Forever.



• "Survivor". Okay, as I've said, arcade fight is super nerfed, so there it is. Go for it. The thing is, put down the fucking rockets and pick up spree weaps: snipe, sword, hammer, plas grenade, and shot gun. I routinely get 15 sprees in a firefight game, and this is how I do it:
  

  
  The first 20 kills gets me five sprees[9]:
  

  
  

  • At 5 kills I get the sniper spree
  
  
  • At 10 kills I get two more sprees: sharpshooter and killing spree
  
  
  • At 15 kills I get be the bullet
  
  
  • At 20 kills I get killing frenzy.
  
  

  
  Then I pick up to shotty which a fucking n00b has left on the ground in his death frenzy already in the first round.
  

  
  

  • At 25 kills I get a shotgun spree
  
  
  • At 30 kills I get two sprees: running riot and open season.
  
  
  • At 35 kills I get the buck wild
  
  

  
  By this time it's the fifth wave, so I pick up sword or hammer.
  

  
  But I'm already at nine sprees.
  

  
  Get the picture? Good!
  

  
  Now for you, it may be hard staying alive, because you didn't follow my advice and grab hold of my ass at all times but went out, right into the middle of the courtyard where the last thing you heard was 'warq-warq-warq' and the last thing you saw was this bright blue ball covering your visor.
  

  
  Well, okay. Pick up snipe. Get twenty kills with it.
  

  
  Twenty kills with snipe is 5 sprees. Automatically.
  

  
  THEN run out into courtyard, because you just can't stop yourself, assault rifle blazing, and shouting at the elite you're charging straight at: 'Your mother dresses you funny!'
  

  
  Works every time.
  

  
  You dying, that is.
  

  
  I see it all the time.
  

  
  THEN, on respawn, pick up snipe, get twenty more kills, and ...
  

  
  And you've just gotten 5 more sprees to complete (actually exceed) the daily challenge.
  

  
  Ever get ten sprees in firefight matchmaking? This way, you will every game.
  

  
  Sprees are a commendation, you know.
  

  
  Pretty cool.

And that's the daily. The dailies are simple, most days, and I get every daily, every day.

Now this week's weekly is actually so stupid-easy it's really a daily challenge. Just load up Nightfall, do the three short-cut bypasses, [10] and you're done. Do that with a friend and you both get a sweat-free 10 grand cR.

Okay, I'm outie. Girls, go out there and kick guys 'assets.' Show them what 'hitting like a girl' really feels like.

My motto: every shot, a headshot, and all the boys will be singing soprano.

:p

---

Endnotes

[1] http://halo.xbox.com

[2] http://phfina.blogspot.com

[3] BPR, n.: "Battle Proficiency Rating" see: BPR [3].

[4] http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pareto_analysis

[5] MVP, n.: "Most Valuable Player," or "The girl who sweeps the top three medals in the Post Game Carnage Report," see: `phfina [2]. (that's me, btw) (and, yes, I have humility issues, but I'm working on being more outgoing and assertive, kay?)

[6] I write 'his' because Halo is so predominately male to assume anything else is ridiculous, shocking even, as I'm told all the time: 'You're a girl? who plays Halo? No way!'

[7] K-D, n.: "Kills to Deaths" an inordinately important pair of numbers to too many people who talk too much about it because THEY. HAVE. NO. LIFE! My K/D is around 2.0, btw. *blush* (those of you who do not get the paradoxical irony of those two statements forming a non sequitur need to reach the mental maturity of finishing grade school first before flaming me).

[8] http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Halo_3:_ODST

[9] http://wikigameguides.com/Halo_Reach/wiki/Sprees-529

[10] http://halo.bungie.org/gameplay/reach_mythic/nf.html